Even with the sloppiness of his opening attack, the assassin moves with a fluidity and speed that Harken knows will be difficult to pin down in a head on fight. The man's dagger -- which has an ethereal sort of glimmer to it, a sparkle like snow in the sun -- glances against his armor with a tinkling of disturbed icicles; it doesn't cut through, doesn't leave a mark, but a chill bites into his flesh all the same.
Of course, the Fang would make sure to have a weapon that could inflict harm no matter the odds.
"And we are well rid of him," Harken spat, tight and harsh, the crack of wood interrupting his words as he pulls his axe free, "But it was those of your company that allowed him such a foothold, gave him the opportunities that stole so many lives--"
There is a powerful rush of wind as his two companions take note of the skirmish and swoop down from on high.
The pegasus knight strikes a blow, but abruptly comes up short once she sees the man in full. The wyvern rider does even less, seeming to immediately take to the defense of this scoundrel -- much to the knight's bafflement and outrage.
"Abandoned the Fang...," he echoes, rolls the words in his mouth and the notion in his head like something foreign and undesired. "That is not how they operate. Death is the only way out for their kind, yet he stands here now; breathing, walking, living a life stolen from others! Have you not lost comrades to his connections? You are a knight of Ilia, are you not? Or was the boasting I heard around tables and firelight of white Ilian feathers bloodied across the shores of the Isle naught but fabrication?"
Why did she stand at his defense? Why did she trust him?
The dragon rider he was less surprised by, though it was no less a betrayal.
"The ties of homeland stay strong, I see. I thought you a knight, a man of some level of honor, but cold blood runs thick in Bern's mountains. You think a man can run away from his sins? That he can simply put them down when they become too heavy?"
He's ranting, not loud but edges jagged and everything in him primed to snap. Pacing -- not out of anxiety but violent intent searching out any weakness it could take. If they fought, if they ran. He would pursue, he would finally do what he had set out to do in those mountains, even if it was but a fraction of the blood owed.
"Repentant? Repenting would be accepting the righteous punishments awaiting him for his deeds, not hiding in shadows to prolong his own existence. He would confess his sins to the church, and he would take hold the guiding hand of Elimine as his retribution was given to him!"
If he had to force his way through them to get to that man, Harken would do so without hesitation. There is the creak of leather from his gloves as his grip on the haft of his axe adjusts, tightens.
